Death in St James's Park (45 page)

Chaloner set a cracking pace, partly to reach Speed’s shop quickly, but more to prevent Gery or Freer from engaging him in conversation. He was confused, desperately worried about Thurloe, and his throat hurt. Unfortunately, they kept pace. Gery was angry.

‘You made me look like a fool,’ he snarled. Chaloner was about to retort that Gery had done that all by himself, when he saw the marshal’s gaze was fixed not on him, but on Freer. ‘You encouraged me to explore the corruption, while all along the real plot was assassination.’

‘Do not blame your failings on me,’ objected Freer. ‘I made suggestions, but you did not have to follow them. It is good that Morland used his initiative, or blood would have been spilled today, and not just Chaloner’s.’

‘We both know Morland is corrupt,’ said Gery. He stopped running, and grabbed the front of Freer’s coat. ‘And so are you.’

‘Me?’ Freer struggled to pull himself loose, while Chaloner hesitated, torn between listening to the quarrel and hurrying to help Palmer. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

‘You are in someone’s pay.’ Gery tightened his grip. ‘Morland is his own man in that he betrays everyone, but you have a master. Who is it?’

‘I do not!’ cried
Freer. ‘You are deranged. Get him off me, Chaloner.’

Chaloner’s first instinct was to oblige, to side with the man he liked, but Morland’s words about not knowing who he could trust clamoured at him. The secretary was certainly right about that. When he hesitated, Gery flung Freer away and hauled out his rapier.

‘Draw,’ the marshal said furiously. ‘Prove your innocence with your blade.’

‘And give you an excuse to kill me?’ asked Freer archly. ‘I do not think so! We both know you are the better swordsman – you will skewer me in an instant. Now put up your weapon and—’

‘You damned traitor,’ snarled Gery. Freer ducked behind Chaloner, who was forced to whip out his own weapon to protect them both as Gery flailed wildly in an effort to reach his target.

‘Stop him, Tom,’ shouted Freer. He drew his sword, but prevented Chaloner from stepping back to let him fight his own battle by taking hold of the spy’s coat. ‘He has already murdered Knight and Ibson. He would have murdered you, too, if you had not escaped from that cell.’

‘Who paid you to betray me, Freer?’ demanded Gery, intensifying his attack. He was strong and determined, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to keep him at bay. ‘Who is your master?’

‘Someone who is twice the man you will ever be,’ hissed Freer, a remark that made Chaloner turn to look at him sharply. But not for long – Freer’s response goaded the marshal into a series of viciously slashing blows that forced Chaloner to concentrate on him again.

‘Enough!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘We do not have time for this. Palmer will—’

‘Forget Palmer,’ snapped
Freer. ‘He is nothing. Save me from Gery, and I will tell John Fry what you have done. You will not regret it, I promise. London will burn today, and once it is gone in all its filthy corruption, we shall look to a better, brighter future.’

Chaloner regarded him in horror, and Gery might have used his inattention to stab him had he not been standing in open-mouthed shock himself. Then the marshal shook himself and took a firmer grip on his sword for another assault, but at that moment a huge band of apprentices from the Company of Barber-Surgeons slouched past, identifiable by their scarlet hoods. They were bellowing a Parliamentarian victory song that Chaloner had not heard since his youth. They cast defiant glances at three little gaggles of fishmongers, cutlers and glaziers, but the smaller groups prudently declined to meet their challenge.

‘Help!’ yelled Freer, pulling off his Cavalier hat and tossing it and his sword away. ‘These two villains mean to kill me because I fought for Cromwell. And you can see I am unarmed.’

Rational men would have noticed the discarded weapon and headwear, but the apprentices were spoiling for a fight and Freer’s claim provided the perfect pretext. They surged forward eagerly, brandishing sticks and knives.

‘We are officers from White Hall,’ declared Gery indignantly. Chaloner winced – it was hardly the wisest of claims to make to a mob with Roundhead leanings. ‘Back off immediately or I—’

‘Two debauched libertines!’ shouted one lad. ‘About to murder an honest Roundhead. Will we stand by and let this happen?’

There was a resounding howl
that they would not.

Chaloner was appalled. How much carnage would there be before they realised that sticks and daggers were no match for swords?

‘Finish them, lads,’ urged Freer. ‘Show them what proud Parliamentarians can do.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Gery angrily. ‘We are trying to save the life of a— I said
stop
!’

The youths advanced purposefully, brandishing their staves.

‘The world will change today and you two cannot stop it,’ yelled Freer over his shoulder as he raced for the safety of an alley. ‘Long live the republic and long live John Fry!’

There was an answering cheer from the apprentices. Grimly, Chaloner gripped his sword and waited for the slaughter to begin.

‘Wait,’ cried the spokesman suddenly, raising his hand just as the skirmish was about to commence. ‘This one is a friend of Surgeon Wiseman. I have seen them together several times.’

‘Lord!’ breathed another. ‘We had better let them go then, because we dare not annoy Wiseman. We might end up being the subject of a public anatomy.’

They were gone without another word, linking arms and bawling a rebellious chant as they marched down Dowgate Hill. Chaloner sheathed his sword quickly and indicated that Gery should do the same before someone else saw a drawn weapon as an invitation to attack. Gery did, albeit reluctantly, and hurried to the alley up which Freer had disappeared. It was empty.

‘So both were traitors,’ he said
bitterly. ‘Morland and Freer. I supposed you guessed?’

‘I have known Morland for a long time,’ replied Chaloner carefully, acutely aware that the wrong response might encourage Gery to turn on him, and they did not have time to play out personal animosities.

‘And Freer? Did you suspect him of being in John Fry’s pay?’

‘No. I liked him.’

‘I did, too. We have been friends for years. Or so I thought.’

‘You are not the only one he used.’ Chaloner spoke with difficulty. ‘He told me that you were either inefficient or corrupt – he wanted you to bear the blame for the investigation’s failure, and me to ensure that Clarendon knew it.’

‘But why?’ asked Gery, stunned anew.

‘Presumably so that when you eventually explained that most of your tactics and decisions were actually Freer’s ideas, it would look like sour grapes on your part and no one would believe you.’

‘The bastard! I will kill him when this is over and … Wait! Where are you going?’

Chaloner wondered whether the marshal had lost what scant wits he seemed to possess. ‘To prevent Palmer from being murdered.’

‘No! You heard Freer – John Fry plans to destroy London today, and rescuing an unpopular cuckold is hardly the best way to prevent it.’

It was a little late to be worrying about that, thought Chaloner acidly. Fry’s plot might not have gained such momentum if Gery had not let Freer convince him to ignore half the Major’s intelligence. ‘Then return to the Earl and ask him for directions. I am going to Palmer.’

He started running again, thankful when
Gery did not follow. Now he might be able to convince Stokes and Cliffe of the madness of their cause before any damage was done, something that would have been impossible with the marshal breathing fire at his elbow.

His heart sank when he saw the crowd outside Speed’s shop, which included unruly apprentices and folk whose austere clothes said that they were the more militant kind of Puritan. All were chanting anti-Catholic slogans. He was relieved to see that none of the Rainbow’s patrons had accepted Speed’s invitation, although he was more sorry than he could say to spot Stokes and Cliffe among the throng. Bulges in their coats told him that both carried guns.

‘No,’ he said softly, approaching Stokes and grabbing his arm. ‘I know what you intend, and you must stop. It is lunacy and will change nothing.’

‘It will make a point,’ argued Stokes. He was pale, and Chaloner saw he had no appetite for what he was about to do. ‘The Court might be better behaved once it understands that we are weary of its wild licentiousness.’

Chaloner struggled to make himself heard above the belligerent singing. ‘You will hang. This “point” is not worth your lives.’

An angry hiss rippled through the crowd as Palmer’s coach was spotted in the distance.

‘Please, Stokes,’ begged Chaloner. ‘Stand down before you do something you will regret.’

‘Someone must take a stand,’ declared Cliffe. ‘Or do you suggest we allow
that woman
to destroy our country with her evil ways? Lent would not have been cancelled, were it not for her.’

‘But Palmer is a good man,’ argued
Chaloner, wishing his voice was stronger. ‘Who
does
keep Lent. And his book is intended to be a balm to our troubles, not a—’

Cliffe shoved him away, hard enough to make him stagger, and then things happened very fast. There was a collective roar of hostility as the carriage rumbled to a standstill. Stokes reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun; Cliffe did the same. Palmer began to alight. Chaloner tried to shout a warning, but his voice cracked and went unheard in the clamour of insults that was pouring from the onlookers.

He punched the dag from Stokes’s hand and stepped in front of Cliffe, blocking him from his target. But Stokes retrieved his weapon quickly, and took aim. Chaloner felt as though he was moving through treacle as he lunged to bat it down again. He touched it just in time, and there was a puff of dust as the bullet struck the ground. The resulting crack turned the crowd’s poisonous invective into cries of alarm. Stokes drew a second dag from his belt, even as smoke still curled from the first, so Chaloner crashed into him, knocking him from his feet. There was another bang as that weapon discharged, too.

But Chaloner’s move had left Cliffe unguarded, and a third shot rang out. People were running in all directions, howling in fright. Then a whip snapped, and the coach lurched away. Chaloner glanced around to see Palmer’s horrified face peering out of the window, but then it was gone, the carriage rattling away with its occupant unscathed.

Chaloner turned back to Stokes and
Cliffe. Stokes was gazing after the coach in disgust, but Cliffe was standing in an attitude of defeat, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Someone lay on the ground in front of him.

‘I changed my mind,’ he whispered, white-faced with shock. ‘I could not kill in cold blood after all, so I aimed at the Castlemaine coat-of-arms instead. I thought blasting a hole in it might serve the same purpose. But this fellow leapt in front of me. I did not mean to hit him!’

Chaloner knelt next to the
stricken man. It was Gery.

‘I saved Palmer,’ Gery whispered, and for the first time since Chaloner had met him, he smiled. It softened his dour features and made him look almost handsome. ‘The assassin was pulling the trigger, but I took the bullet instead.’

‘You did well.’ Chaloner was reluctant to tell him that his reckless act of heroism had done no more than save Palmer the cost of having his coach patched up.

‘I decided you were right,’ Gery went on. His face was an unhealthy grey-white and his breathing shallow. ‘He is a good man, a patriot who came home to fight the Dutch, even though it cannot be pleasant for him here. Do you think the King will be pleased?’

Chaloner nodded, although it went through his mind that His Majesty might have been rather glad to be rid of his mistress’s husband. He began to unbutton Gery’s coat. The hostile crowd had vanished and the prowling mobs paid him no heed. Speed hovered in the door of his shop, but was too frightened to come out, while there was no sign of Stokes or Cliffe.

‘Perhaps he will knight me,’ whispered
Gery. ‘It is unfair that Morland received honours for the dirty business of espionage, while honest warriors like me had nothing. I have always hated spies.’

‘Why did you hire him then?’ asked Chaloner, still struggling with the buttons.

‘He was recommended to me. In fact, everything I have done has been on the advice of …’

‘Of Freer?’ The coat was open at last, but Chaloner had seen enough gunshot wounds to know that this one would be mortal. There was nothing he could do except stay with Gery until he died, although he fretted at the lost time.

‘Yes – my so-called friend. It never once occurred to me that he was Fry’s mouthpiece. He set me against you from the start – always reminding me of your Roundhead past, saying you would steal the glory if I let you help me.’

‘Never mind him.’ Chaloner’s voice was weaker than Gery’s, and he was not sure the dying man would hear it. ‘Tell me what the Major said about the Devill’s Worke.’

‘Freer urged me to keep you busy with nonsense,’ Gery whispered. ‘I thought the ducks would serve such a purpose, and I was horrified when they led you to Post House Yard.’

‘The Major,’ prompted Chaloner urgently. ‘What did he—’

‘Freer suggested the fifty-pound reward for Gardner, too,’ Gery went on, either not hearing or disinclined to answer. ‘It was a stupid idea – it shackled Williamson by bombarding him with useless information. Of course, now I see that was exactly what they intended.’

Chaloner was nearing the end
of his tether, racked with anxiety for what was going to happen, and for Thurloe, so staying calm was not easy. ‘Then help me stop them. What did the Major—’

‘I was furious with you for arresting Knight.’ Gery’s eyes were beginning to glaze. ‘I thought it would undermine all my work – my hours of patient questioning, my sending Morland to infiltrate those greedy clerks …’

And a lot of good that had done, thought Chaloner acidly. ‘
Please
tell me what—’

‘Knight said the Devill’s Worke is a distraction, to divert me from the real villains. Ibson claimed the same, so I killed him, too. I did not believe either of them. Ibson also said …’